Fragile
I am not perfect. I have secrets. I am messy. Not just my bedroom, but I. — Jennifer Nevin
By Alexia VillanuevaPublished 6 years ago • 1 min read
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So I exposed the most fragile part of my vulnerability, and he took what was beautiful and manipulated it until it transformed my childlike wonder into doubt. And as these tears fell freely from my face, I locked myself up and hid the key in a place I knew I would never find it. I created a new identity and prayed only a few might find me. I’m only sorry if I hurt anyone in the process…— j. grey
Fragile,
lifeless, pills
popping
like she has
eyes for
moons.
Smoke from
her cigarette enlighting
her skin like
feathers of a robin.
Her eyes bright
red, and encased like
turquoise candy.
Her head is
a maze of summer dazes.
Her mouth a
sip of accent like Irish tea.
Converted into
Spanish wings of bilingual
tea.
She is just a
simple American girl
with white
rushing through her veins.
She has moon for
eyes and a thorned rose for
a tongue.
With hands
for talk and her mouth
for endless
strucks of turquoise smoke.
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